


The Bath Sheet Matter

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blow Job, Frottage, M/M, Post Hiatus, Starting Over, bath time fun, cotton candy bingo, prompt: towel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John may have taken up house again at 221B Baker St, but not everything is as it was. Frustrated and desperate for a way to break the ice and lure John into pursuing a relationship, Sherlock resorts to an innovative tactic to get around his friend and partner's reticence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bath Sheet Matter

"Have you ever considered the erotic potential of a towel?" 

John stopped his fruitless groping and stood, sodden and dripping from his shower, confident that his morning was going to be anything but routine. There was something about Sherlock's voice. There were notes of the inquisitive tone he used when he was trying to work through a problem. But there was another more mischievous quality that suggested this sudden and very random line of thought had nothing to do with a case and everything to do with personal interest. 

Despite the fact he was not entirely awake, and although he was somewhat peeved at having his privacy invaded before he was up for the challenge of dealing with Sherlock at his most random, he drew back the curtain and peered out. 

The towel he had fruitlessly groped for, that should have been on the hook adjacent to the shower bath, was gone. A new, opulent, and certainly not purchased from Asda replacement model was folded neatly over Sherlock's arm, and he was stroking its surface in a contemplative manner. 

"Your boundary issues are limitless, aren't they," John said, giving vent to a little of his frustration. Time away had altered Sherlock in some respects, but his propensity for striking up conversations, no matter how inconvenient the time or place, hadn't changed.

The feeling of irritation was somewhat lessened by the sight of Sherlock casually attired in a deep sapphire blue silk dressing gown that set off his eyes in a most remarkable fashion. It was belted loosely around his slender hips – Hips he had not dreamt about only a few hours earlier. Hips his dream self had not gripped hard enough to leave fingermarks on whilst fucking Sherlock over the dining room table. – exposing a provocative view of his chest. The memory of the dream and the realisation that Sherlock was likely wearing nothing else underneath collided, and John dropped his hands to cover the first stirrings of what promised to be a spectacularly embarrassing erection. 

Sherlock shot him a look. The look said John's issues with privacy were his alone, especially when he had something important on his mind, and right now he very much did. "For example," he said, as if his musing had gone uninterrupted. "They can be used to arouse the senses as the more mundane function of blotting water from the skin is undertaken." 

He swallowed and tried to stay strong and not succumb to Sherlock's seduction. After all, if Sherlock was going to learn boundaries then they had to be consistently enforced. But as the lusciously soft towel – sheet really, it was easily twice the size of the run of the mill version – was dragged slowly over his skin, it was difficult not to yield to the sensation, and to the sound of Sherlock's voice, pitched as velvet smooth as the cloth he plied. "That's true," he managed to stammer.

Sherlock offered his hand. Hesitantly, John took it as he stepped out of the tub and onto the bathmat. For some unaccountable reason, his knees went weak. It had nothing to do with Sherlock dropping to kneel in front of him as he continued to apply the towel whilst looking up through the veil of his eyelashes. It certainly had nothing to do with Sherlock parting his lips and using the tip of his tongue to wet them as the towel grazed the inside of his thigh. 

The luxurious fabric was dragged over the back of his calves, found the sensitive spot behind his knees, and ghosted upward over his buttocks. Sherlock rose gracefully to his feet, sliding lush cotton over his back, wrapping one length securely around his hips and draping the remainder over his left shoulder like an impromptu toga. He stepped away to study his handiwork. John swallowed hard against his quickened breath and racing heartbeat. The towel had been between Sherlock's fingers and his skin the entire time, but that scarcely mattered. Anticipation had heightened his responsiveness and made him eager for whatever devious seduction technique was in store for him next. His objections to Sherlock's invasion of his privacy had been utterly forgotten. 

"A towel can be used as cover, obscuring the object of one's desire." 

Sherlock gave him another molten look. A sharp pulse of want went straight to his groin and his prick twitched, brushing the soft fabric that covered it. He swallowed hard again, determined he would not beg.

"A towel can be used like a rope to lead someone to more appropriate surroundings," Sherlock said as he lifted the drape of fabric that covered John's chest and tugged. 

Gratefully, he let himself be guided into Sherlock's bedroom. The sheets and duvet had been folded neatly back to the foot of the bed. Sherlock moved gracefully to stand at his back. "Of course, removing the towel by unwrapping it slowly – " Sherlock whispered against his ear. " – can heighten the sense of anticipation for both the party who wears it, and the person doing the unwrapping." 

Leisurely, Sherlock lifted the drape of fabric, drawing it slowly up and backwards and then untucking the corner that had anchored the entire makeshift garment. It fell and became a fluffy white pool at their feet. 

John stood, stock still. He could feel the blood pulsing in his veins. His prick throbbed, eager and aching for attention. But this was Sherlock's game, and despite his earlier ire at being interrupted in the shower, he was now desperate to see it through. 

"What else can a towel be used for?" Sherlock asked as he produced second towel, twin to the first, from beneath his pillow. He unfurled it with a flourish and then snapped the cloth before settling it over the sheets. "Oh yes, it can protect a surface one doesn't want sullied." 

The throbbing in his prick intensified. He could feel pre-cum starting to leak from the head. 

"I think you need to lie down, John, and make yourself comfortable." Sherlock gave him another smouldering look and lifted his chin, granting his permission.

He didn't hesitate, but he decided that he could give as good as he was getting. He took his time, clambering onto the mattress and then arranged himself as artfully as he could manage, splaying his legs wide and tucking his arms under his head against the pillows as Sherlock watched. 

With a sharp jerk of the silk belt, Sherlock loosened the bow that held his dressing gown closed. A shrug of his shoulders sent the garment whispering as it slipped free of his body and dropped to his feet. Unbidden, his hand strayed to his erection, and he caressed himself with long, unhurried strokes as he gazed hungrily down at John. 

Towels, and their uses were temporarily forgotten as Sherlock knelt upon the mattress, raised John's ankle to his lips, and delicately kissed the arch of his foot before tracing a devilishly slow path up his calves and over his knees, exposing spots he didn't even realise were susceptible to erotic stimulation, and leaving him gasping at each new discovery. 

The sensual torture continued upward. A kiss here. A love bite there. Quick licks alternated with slow, indulgent laps that sent his pulse racing as Sherlock enervated his skin and made his erection ache from neglect. But it had been so long since he had been with anyone, and he'd fantasied about Sherlock doing these sorts of things to him, almost as often as he told himself that they'd never find themselves sharing a bed. Unless one of them did something to forestall the inevitable, he would come before Sherlock had a chance to wrap those pink and nimble lips around his prick. 

A deliberate breath, filling his lungs and then emptying them out slowly again, helped, as did Sherlock moving his attentions to a somewhat less sensitive spot on the outside of his hip. As he exhaled a third time, he reached down and squeezed just below the corona, giving himself a small measure of relief and stalling his climax. 

"That's right, John. Just relax."

How could he relax when Sherlock's voice, pitched in such low and sensuous tones, made his prick throb? He didn't want to relax. What he wanted was to rut. To press Sherlock's nose against his groin as his shaft was sucked down to the root. Or to pull Sherlock to him until their bodies were chest to chest and bury himself between those long lithe thighs, thrusting his hips over and over again until he spent between them. 

With difficulty, he took another slow breath and closed his eyes, hoping, that without the sight of Sherlock's head bowed over his groin, he might keep some control. But his imagination was having no problem creating erotic images in his mind's eye, especially when Sherlock brushed his cheek against his thigh and his breath ghosted like a promise against his balls. 

"You know," Sherlock said. He managed to sound simultaneously maddeningly casual and dead sexy. "I could make you spend without touching your genitals." 

The off-handed declaration wrenched him out of his happy thoughts. He was so sure that he was about to be sucked off. His imagination supplied the sensation of that wicked tongue lapping, at first delicately, and then with swift, heavenly pressure as Sherlock's lips slid repeatedly over his hard-on, that he'd nearly had to stall his orgasm a second time. 

"You know there's something else that can done with a towel," John retorted, alluding back to the topic that had brought him to his current predicament. "You can stuff one into an over-talkative lover's mouth and use it for a gag before you fuck him senseless for being a cock-tease." 

Sherlock's eyes widened at the atypically crude language, and then his gaze went momentarily faraway as if he were visualising the scenario. His expression became unsure until he realised he was being teased. A devilish glimmer lit his eyes, as if he was filing the idea away to explore later. "But if you gagged me, I'd be unable to do this." He dipped his head.

John moaned, loudly, not giving a damn if the entire street knew that he was in the throes of a very good blow job. His self control deserted him under the force of Sherlock's skills. A little more of it ebbed away each time he was sucked down to the root and with agonizing attention to every centimetre of length, slowly released again. 

Sweat damped his back as he planted his feet against the mattress and fought the urge to fuck Sherlock's mouth. He drew ragged breaths and felt his blood throb against his skin as every calming technique he knew fled from his memory under the long awaited onslaught. Utterly lost and completely under Sherlock's power, he found himself reduced to a porn video's stereotype, and wished he could control the litany of 'Oh God. Oh yeah. Oh baby, just like that,' that poured, unbidden, from his mouth. 

Sherlock held his softening prick through the aftershocks, and then with one last swipe of his tongue against the semi-rigid length, he let it fall from his lips. He looked up and smiled roguishly. "Do you regret not gagging me now?" 

"Cheeky bastard," John replied fondly. "I've really missed you." He pulled at Sherlock's shoulders, dragging their bodies together until they were nestled closely, pressed a kiss against Sherlock's mouth, and then reached between them and closed his palm around Sherlock's still ardent girth to give it a squeeze. "You deserve a reward. Possibly a spanking. But definitely a reward." He fitted Sherlock's erection between his thighs and began to grind his pelvis, undulating as slowly and teasingly as he could bear given his hyper-sensitive state. 

"Oh, John," Sherlock moaned against his ear, low and gravel-toned. 

It was a compliment and a plea for more, all rolled together in two drawn out syllables. "Want more?" he asked, his voice harsh and breathless. "Want it harder? Faster?" He gripped his thighs even more tightly against Sherlock's shaft and bucked his hips sharply. 

"Now who's teasing?" Sherlock managed to gasp before John started thrusting in earnest. 

"Not me," John said as he gripped Sherlock's thighs. "Not any more." He leaned forward, tangled his fingers in Sherlock's riot of dark curls, and brought their mouths together, ending further conversation. Their gasps and moans, their quick panting breaths and the creak of the bedsprings punctuated air that became heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. 

Sherlock arched his neck against the pillows, exposing the long, pale column of his throat. He swallowed convulsively, the tip of his pink tongue darting forward to moisten his lips as he rutted his hips sharply against the slick heat and welcome friction of John's thighs. His arms, so deceptively slender, wrapped John in a powerful embrace and pulled him downward so once again they lay chest to chest as Sherlock stiffened, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he let go. "Finally," he said, rather breathlessly. "I was beginning to despair." 

"Hmm?" John wasn't really listening. He was too busy wondering why he'd let his pride, and too many other stupid excuses, keep them apart as long as they had. "Why?"

Sherlock rolled off of him and curled onto his side, propping his head against the pillows. 

"When stimulated, your autonomic functions: respiration, pulse rate, even the dilation response of your pupils, all indicate that, despite the passage of time, you've maintained a sexual interest in me. And yet, you've made no move to pursue a carnal relationship. I found this confusing because when you believe yourself to be unobserved, you look upon me with obvious longing. My more subtle advances have been rebuffed. I have the impression that you've been holding back, but I've yet to discern your motive for denying yourself what you obviously want." 

"I've been an idiot," John replied. "I'm sorry. My feelings were a jumbled mess." He paused to draw a shaking breath and tried to gather his scattered thoughts.

The ceiling offered no insights. Nor did the dust motes caught in the sunbeams that were creeping through the window. He realised he was avoiding Sherlock again. He turned onto his side, and met a solemn gaze. "I wanted to take you back. Pick up as if you never left." He blew out a breath born of weeks of frustration. "But I was so knotted up inside. Hurt and angry, even though I didn't want to be. Things were complicated enough. It would have only muddied the water further if we started sleeping together. And then, when I quit being upset, I didn't know how to start over. I didn't know what to say."

As he sought to explain, Sherlock's expression became even more confused. "Then why, if you were so conflicted, did you agree to take up house with me again? Surely it would have been less painful for you if you'd remained in your own flat."

Why were things never easy, John wondered. He and Sherlock had just had mind blowing sex. They should be plotting what they were going to do for Round Two, not poking at their barely healed heartaches. 

"Five minutes after word got out you were back, reporters were sticking their microphones in my face. 'What did I think of Sherlock Holmes sudden reappearance? Was he a trying to pull a new scam or was he on the level?' I knew that if I did anything other than play at happy families with you and Mycroft, it would have looked like I'd lost faith in you. Our problems aside, I wasn't going to give the tabloids that kind of fodder. I figured we'd work things out. Or we wouldn't. Either way, by the time it happened, the paps would be digging into someone else's rubbish." 

"You did all that for for me?" Sherlock seemed genuinely touched. His eyes were shining a little too brightly given the early hour. 

John could feel the warmth of a blush crawl up his neck. "I thought I owed us the chance. We were a great team once. And good friends." He realised he was on the verge of babbling, or possibly breaking out in a chorus of _Old Lang Syne_ , it would be better to find some other use for his mouth before he embarrassed himself further. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against Sherlock's. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. I finally got my head straight. You figured out a way to break the ice. And the rest is history." Grasping for any random topic to change the subject, John fingered the bath sheet on which they reclined. "Where did this come from?" 

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment with gimlet eyes and then he shrugged. "I took them off a linen cart at the Dorchester."

"You didn't!" Evidently petty theft was still one of Sherlock's foibles.

His bedmate shrugged. "It's not as if they'll be missed. Not when compared to Lady Basington's diamond necklace. Which, by the way, I recovered last night. Consider the towels a small additional gratuity in recompense for the tediousness of the case." Sherlock sighed. "I can't wait until the furore about my return dies down and I can get back to real work. The banal nature of the problems you've been bringing me is doing in my head." 

John grinned, grateful Sherlock seemed as willing to move on as he felt. "Need a nice, juicy murder, do you?" 

"Hmm. A kidnapping would do in a pinch. Or a serious case of blackmail. Not some tawdry affair over a few suggestive photos," Sherlock said as his expression became a bit dreamy. "Something more than reputations needs to be at stake."

"Sorry," John said. "Fresh out. But until some poor sod comes knocking, what do you say to breakfast? I don't know about you, but this investigation into the use of towels has left me famished."

John rolled out of bed. He slipped into Sherlock's dressing gown and then added casually, "And maybe once we're in the kitchen, we can find some other common household item whose mysteries we can explore. I understand olive oil has a considerable number of interesting properties." 

There were several beats of stunned silence as John sauntered out of the bedroom. Then he grinned as a shout of delighted laughter rang out from the bedroom.


End file.
